


Until the Sun Comes Up

by Amelia_Clark



Series: 1997 Lilith Fair Mainstage (Genderqueer Cas) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Genderqueer Castiel (Supernatural), Mentions Of Gender Dysphoria, Non-Binary Castiel (Supernatural), Oral Sex, Other, Porn Without (much) Plot, Rimming, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 14:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17624366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: Castiel’s been stuck on hold with the cable company for half an hour when Dean’s text comes through:hey Cas what’s up?Immediately, the scowl that’s settled on their face melts into a smile.Just some fluffy getting-together porn, with a side of non-binary affirmation.





	Until the Sun Comes Up

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, Castiel's feelings about their gender and their body are mine, and I don't claim to speak for anyone else! Also, I don't know how this got so long when it's mostly smut.

_January 5  
4:13 PM_

Castiel’s been stuck on hold with the cable company for half an hour when Dean’s text comes through: _**hey Cas what’s up?**_

Immediately, the scowl that’s settled on their face melts into a smile. It’s not the first words they’ve exchanged with Dean since meeting on the bus New Year’s Eve; while all their communications so far have been pretty generic, they’ve been friendly and frequent, a much-needed source of source of social interaction in a city where Castiel knows no one else.

 _ **Nothing much,**_ they text back. _**Trying to get my internet hooked up still.**_

 _ **good times,**_ Dean answers. _**still need a ride to ikea? i can take you tomorrow probably.**_

 _ **Sounds good.**_ Castiel hits SEND and waits, tapping their fingers on the banker’s box they’re using as a coffee table. The cable company’s hold music starts over from the beginning for what feels like the hundredth time.

_**cool. i can pick you up @ noon?** _

_**Okay. Thanks for doing this.** _

_**no problem :),**_ says Dean. Then there’s an ellipsis for a while as he types, but all that comes through is: _**been thinking about you.**_

Castiel smirks; whatever Dean elected not to send, they’d lay even odds it was more forward than that. Dean’s shyness continues to be adorable, and it makes Castiel want to do absolutely filthy things to him. They’re still formulating their reply—aiming for flirtatious but not pornographic—when the cable rep finally comes on the line with a bored “Can I help you?”

Shit. “Yes, hello,” they say, searching for the Post-It where they’d written their account number. Quickly, they text Dean: _**Cable co picked up, gotta take this.**_

The chime of Dean’s answer sounds a few minutes later, but by then they’re focusing most of their attention on not yelling at the rep, who seems to think the best solution is for Castiel to upgrade the service they haven’t had hooked up yet. The conversation goes nowhere, just like the last one, and eventually Castiel cuts their losses and hangs up. “Try again tomorrow, I guess,” they mutter as they click over to Dean’s message.

It’s a picture. In it, Dean sprawls on a couch with his flannel shirt unbuttoned, the edges pulled back and showing his stomach and chest; he’s got a tattoo of a pentagram over his heart. Just inside the frame, Castiel can see Dean’s belt and fly, both undone and shoved down out of the way; his hand’s on his hard cock, thumb teasing at the head. He’s biting his lip.

_**Holy shit, Dean.** _

_**yeah, you like it? said i’d been thinking about you. wanted you to see what that does to me.** _

Thank God, they don’t have to be subtle anymore—they can talk dirty with the best of them. _**I like it a lot. What are you doing right now? I think you should come over here and fuck me.**_

Ellipsis again, then: _**shit i can’t not right now. got work in an hour.**_

 _ **The garage is open on Saturday?**_ Dean’s told them he’s a mechanic, and while they’re sure he’s good at his job, in their experience auto repair places keep inconvenient hours.

_**i bartend on weekends, place called the roadhouse.** _

They frown at their phone. Sure, they could go fuck themselves right now (their dildos are in a box marked KITCHEN), but now that they’ve got the visual of Dean’s cock in their mind, nothing else will do. _**Well, that’s no good.**_

_**i get off at two and i’m just gonna wanna crash :(. sorry cas i would love to believe me.** _

_**Come over anyway,**_ they type impulsively. _**Fuck me in the morning.**_

_**really? won’t i wake you up?** _

_**Probably, but I can fall asleep again. I don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow, we can sleep late and fuck and go to IKEA.** _

_**uh that sounds like a perfect sunday kind of?** _

_**You have unusual feelings about IKEA.** _

__**nah i think i just got feelings about you.  
**   
They grin as they text their address. __**I’ll see you tonight then, Dean.**

_**yeah ok. glad i sent that pic, i wondered if it would be too much.** _

_**It’s a masterpiece.** _

_*******_

_January 6  
2:31 AM_

Castiel can’t sleep. Their bed frame broke in transit—the main reason they need to go to IKEA—so they’ve been sleeping on a mattress on the floor, and even though they’ve done it before, it’s depressing to end up doing it again. The ceiling’s too far away, the floor unsettlingly close; in St. Louis, they’d used the bed as a stand-in for the couch they don’t own, but without the frame that doesn’t work as well. Right now their only practical seating is the threadbare recliner they’ve had since college and a kitchen chair they keep meaning to paint but know in their heart they never will. 

Also, they don’t have a dining table, or a television, or a bookcase, or a real coffee table. And they’ve only unpacked two boxes of dishes (mismatched) and toiletries (store brand).

Objectively, they know Dean’s not going to care. Nobody has two jobs if they don’t need the money, and they’re sure plenty of Dean’s income goes towards keeping up his 50-year-old car, a sleek black Chevy Impala. Dean’s unlikely to be bothered by Castiel’s clutter and the general shabbiness of their possessions, they know; but what they _feel_ is a totally different matter, and so Castiel is lying on their mattress wide awake, staring at the ceiling and being absolutely positive Dean’s going to take one look at the place and run for home.

The buzzer goes off; in the still apartment it’s jarring as a fire alarm. Well, there’s no going back now—the wind chill’s been in the single digits, and their conscience won’t let them leave Dean to stay out there any longer than necessary. “Right,” they say under their breath, and roll their eyes at themself as they go to buzz him in. “Definitely your conscience talking right now, Castiel.”

Even though they’re right there and expecting it, Dean’s knock makes them jump. Oh God, they’re still only wearing boyshorts, they realize, they forgot to put something on. “Just a second!” they yell, grabbing the closest sleeved garment, a blue silk robe embroidered with chrysanthemums, and throwing it on. Consequently, they’re already a little breathless when they reach the door; then they open it, and Dean’s standing there, grinning, and they’re not sure if they’ll ever breathe again.

“Hey, Cas,” he says. He’s wearing a heavy green parka with a hood and a navy knitted cap pulled down over his ears, but his hands are bare when he takes them out of his pockets, rubbing them together to warm them. “Hell of a day to forget my gloves, huh?” 

“Come in,” says Castiel, frowning with concern. When Dean’s closed the door behind him, they impulsively grab for his hands. “Fuck, you’re like ice, here.” Stepping closer, they brace themselves and guide Dean’s hands beneath their robe, pressing them against the heat of their belly.

“I’ll get you all cold,” Dean says.

“No.” They start unzipping Dean’s parka, unbuttoning the flannel shirt he wears beneath. “I’ll warm you up.”

Dean stumbles forward and kisses them.

Castiel makes an approving noise and pulls him closer; Dean resists for long enough to take off his top layers and his hat. Beneath the latter, his hair is stuck to his forehead in front and sticking straight up with static in back, and his nose is red with cold—but none of it can detract from his beauty. And now, he’s melting into Castiel like warm butter, and he’s sliding his freezing hands around and down to take firm hold of Castiel’s ass, and his tongue, when it presses into Castiel’s mouth again, tastes like whiskey and sugar.

But when Castiel puts one hand between Dean’s legs to cup his cock through denim, Dean takes a step back. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to start anything. I really am too tired to fuck.” He picks up one end of the sash of Castiel’s robe and tugs at it. “You look so hot in this, though, brings out your eyes. Wanna go to bed and make out till one of us falls asleep?”

“Um, I don’t have a bed, really.” They gesture at the mattress. “Sorry.”

“All I need is a flat, soft place,” Dean sighs, and bends down to unlace his boots. “And I get you, too, so I’m happy as a clam.”

“Okay, then.” Turning their back on Dean, they drop their robe to give him a good view of their ass, whet his appetite for later (literally, if Dean’s not opposed; Castiel loves being eaten out before they get fucked). Tthe apartment’s too chilly to do that for long, though, and they burrow underneath the covers, propping themself up on their elbows to watch Dean take off his boots and jeans and socks. Underneath his flannel, he’s got on a faded T-shirt reading SINGER’S GARAGE; the apostrophe is a musical note. 

“So I don’t have a bed frame, but I _do_ have flannel sheets and a down comforter,” Castiel says. “By which I mean that you should take off your shirt.”

Dean flashes them a grin and pulls it off. Castiel makes no effort to hide the way their eyes roam over his tattooed chest and broad shoulders. “Good. Now you should get over here and get into bed.”

“Yessir,” says Dean, and winces. “Sorry.”

“You can make it up to me in the morning,” says Castiel, yawning. “Later in the morning. Come on, get over here.”

Dean’s already there, though, ducking under the covers and sighing in satisfaction as he stretches out next to Castiel. He bends down to lick the hollow of Castiel’s throat, their collarbone. “I’ll try not to put my cold feet on you,” he says, and bites his lip.

Castiel tugs Dean’s mouth to theirs and bites that lip, too. And they’re kissing again, hungry and slow; Dean’s body warms against their own, his knees between Castiel’s and one hand on their jaw, the other touching them everywhere he can reach. The last time they did this, they were in the back of a bus, wrapped in outerwear and made clumsy by the narrow space; so while they don’t technically do anything new, between the coziness of Castiel’s bed and their current state of undress, the whole experience feels entirely different. In fact, there’s a minute or so where Castiel thinks maybe they _will_ fuck tonight after all—but it’s shortly after that they slip seamlessly into unconsciousness.

They dream of Dean.

*******

_7:00 AM_

Castiel’s eyes fly open and they sit bolt upright as the alarm on Dean’s phone—which is, for some ungodly reason, Asia’s 1982 hit single “Heat of the Moment”—goes off what feels like ten minutes later. “Oh shit,” groans Dean, diving out of bed and fumbling for his jeans, “oh holy shit I’m sorry, Cas.”

“What the _fuck,_ Dean,” they groan, as he locates and silences his phone. “It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dean says again, crawling back into bed. “I meant to turn that off last, Friday night actually, but I forgot, and then I forgot again yesterday, and then I got here and you were…well, you were even hotter than I remembered, and I don’t think I’d’ve remembered my own _name_ once you started taking my clothes off.”

“Are you _blaming_ me?” Castiel scowls, but even as they say it, they’re moving closer. Half-asleep’s one of their favorite ways to have sex, and Dean continues to be unreasonably attractive even when disheveled. 

“No! Ah, crap.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face and leaves it there, and Castiel throws a leg over his hips. 

“Make it up to me,” they purr into his ear. “Think you’re awake enough to fuck?” With lazy grace, they roll on top of him and settle their weight on his thighs.

“Uh, I am now,” he says, running both hands up Castiel’s legs to circle their waist. “You wanna be on top, then?”

“Eventually.” Castiel kisses him briefly—too briefly for Dean’s taste, because he whimpers when they pull away to speak. “How do you feel about eating me out?”

Dean whimpers again and closes his eyes for a second before he responds. “Pretty damn good. But kiss me for a while first, okay?” Castiel nods, and they’re moving to do so when Dean says in a rush, “I wanted to ask, are there any words I shouldn’t use? For, you know, your junk. Or if I shouldn’t touch you a certain way.”

“Oh.” Castiel sits back; this is usually a conversation they’ve had already, probably one they _should_ have had before being actually in bed and almost naked. “I don’t really have a lot of physical dysphoria—I like this body a lot. But I like it like you’d like a favorite outfit? Even if it’s comfortable, I’m frustrated I can’t change it when I want to, because I’d love to experience intercourse with a clit and vagina. I love being fucked this way, too, though. And fucking, on occasion.” They thrust their hips down quickly, once, just to see the blush on Dean’s cheeks deepen.

“So I could jerk you off?” Dean asks. It’s clearly costing him something to be so direct, but every time his gaze flutters anxiously away from Castiel’s, it’s back in seconds, intense and determined. “Or suck you.”

“Either one’s fine. But what I’m really craving right now is something in my ass. Your tongue, your fingers, your cock, ideally all three.”

“Okay, that sounds…awesome,” says Dean. He shifts beneath Castiel, whether from discomfort with the conversation or arousal, Castiel doesn’t know; Dean’s cock is hard and thick through his boxers, and Castiel cannot wait to get that inside them. 

“As for words, nothing’s quite right? So I usually don’t get too specific. I don’t mind ‘ass,’ obviously, but mostly you can just say what you want to do to me in that vague way you’ve been doing, like asking to ‘suck me.’” Castiel smirks. “How did you know to ask like that? Did you look up how to fuck me, Dean?”

“Oh, I _know_ how to fuck you, Cas,” Dean says. He works Castiel’s underwear down to their thighs, stroking a few times before getting both hands on their bare ass and squeezing. “Get on your stomach, okay?”

“I thought you wanted to make out for a while,” Castiel says, but they’re doing so, wiggling out of their undies on the way.

“Yeah, we can do that later, do it romantic—I got nowhere to be, do you?” Dean’s pushing their thighs apart and pulling the comforter up over them both; he thumbs Castiel’s cheeks apart roughly, and Castiel feels his breath as he speaks. 

“I don’t,” says Castiel, tilting their hips up towards his mouth. “So if you’re not going to be romantic, Dean, what _are_ you going to be like?”

Dean’s response is to bury his face in Castiel’s ass with a growl.

Their first thought is surprise—they’d expected Dean to have lingering shame about eating ass, or at least be tentative about it. Their second thought doesn’t exist, because Dean’s clever tongue and greedy mouth are making it impossible for Castiel to do anything but moan their approval. It’s dark under the comforter, and too warm from their accumulated body heat; it’s easy to just _feel,_ and it feels so fucking good. “Oh, fuck, Dean,” they gasp, shoving back against him, “fuck, I like that.”

And then Dean’s mouth is suddenly gone. “Hey!” Castiel grumbles. “I didn’t say you could stop.”

“I ain’t pissed yet today,” Dean says with a smirk in his voice. “Back in a sec.” He slaps Castiel’s ass. “You stay put, hot stuff, I’m not done.”

“You better not be,” Castiel grumbles. Dean laughs, slaps their other cheek, and heads for the bathroom. “Get the condoms while you’re in there!” Castiel calls after him. They fold their arms beneath their head on the pillow and wait.

Dean doesn’t take long—the bathroom’s only ten feet away, after all. He tosses the condoms next to the mattress and yanks the comforter down to the foot of the bed, making his way back between Castiel’s spread legs. “God, you’re hot,” he says, running his hands up the back of Castiel’s thighs and up, over their ass, their back and shoulders; he tugs their hair a little and then slides just the tips of his fingers back down over the same path, returning to where their thighs are wet with his spit. “There was no lube in there, though. Do I need to go out and get some?”

“Oh, it’s in the kitchen,” Castiel says, and jumps up to get it from the box with the dildos. They don’t bother to cover up, feeling Dean’s eyes on them like a physical touch.

“Remind me never to let you make me dinner.”

Castiel looks over their shoulder as they rummage through the box and raises an eyebrow. “I keep it with the cocks that don’t sass back.”

Dean cracks up. In the midst of his giggles—which, Castiel notes, crinkle his green eyes at the corners in a way that makes their stomach turn an uneasy little somersault—he works his boxers off and strikes a pose like Burt Reynolds on a bear rug. He’s so obviously comfortable naked Castiel feels a pang of envy; they don’t hate their body, but it doesn’t quite feel like their own. Dean wraps one hand around his cock and looks at it appraisingly. “Never had it called sassy, before. Now, _massive_ on the other hand, or _meaty…”_

To shut him up, Castiel pushes him over onto his back, climbing onto him and licking the head of his cock—which, not that they’re going to give Dean the satisfaction, is, in fact, noticeably above average. “Hey,” Dean protests weakly, as Castiel straddles his shoulders and lowers their hips to his face; “hey!” he objects when Castiel pulls off of him with an exaggerated slurp.

“You’ve got work to do, Dean, and it’s not whining,” Castiel says, and they don’t move again until Dean’s hands are pressing their ass open and onto his mouth, and his tongue is pushing its way inside. Then they’re sucking him down again, matching his rhythm and humming with pleasure at the weight of Dean’s cock in their mouth, the way his hips twitch as he holds back the urge to thrust.

Dean takes his time working Castiel open, until he’s three fingers deep and spreading them wide to swirl his tongue around them, and Castiel’s too far gone to blow him anymore; they pant into Dean’s flank and thank their lucky stars Dean was willing to come over last night instead of going home. They’re starting to wonder if they should just ask Dean if he minds fingering them to orgasm when Dean pushes their ass away from his face and says breathlessly, “I gotta fuck you now, Cas, I gotta.”

“Yes, please,” says Castiel, and they scramble to reposition themself as Dean fumbles for a condom; then he’s guiding himself inside Castiel with a sigh of relief.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks. His hands are braced on Castiel’s thighs and his eyes are almost closed, lashes fluttering while he waits for Castiel to tell him he can move. “I know I just had my face in your ass.”

“Just a second.” Sitting up, Castiel wipes Dean’s mouth thoroughly with the sheet and traces his lower lip with their thumb. Dean whimpers. “No tongue,” they say in their sultriest voice, and Dean laughs; his cock jerks inside Castiel. 

“That’s fair,” he says. “Doing okay up there?”

“Mm.” Castiel shifts their hips. Dean’s size is no optical illusion for sure, but the fullness is a welcome feeling; they curl their toes under and lift up experimentally, and Dean lets out a low groan, his fingers tightening on Castiel’s thighs. His eyes shut again, and they stay that way while Castiel sinks back down onto him, adjusts their position for the best possible angle. They bend down towards him then, one hand resting on the pillow and the other on Dean’s throat, thumb pressed into his galloping pulse; Dean’s eyes are open now, holding Castiel’s own with dazed longing. Just short of contact, they stop, feeling Dean’s shaky exhale hot on their face. “You should fuck me now, Dean,” they say, and their lips brush as they say it.

Dean, lifting his head to kiss them close-mouthed, takes hold of Castiel’s hipbones like handles and thrusts up into them, hard. “Oh, yes,” Castiel murmurs, and Dean does it again, and again. “Like that, Dean, just like that.”

“You feel so good,” Dean gasps against their mouth. “I wanna—can I go harder?”

“If you can,” says Castiel, and they don’t mean it as a challenge—it’s hard on the abs, topping from underneath, and Dean’s got the body of a manual laborer, not a gym rat—but Dean seems to take it as one, getting his feet flat on the mattress to get some leverage, which he then uses to full advantage. Not to be outdone, Castiel works their thighs towards exhaustion shoving down on Dean’s cock, frantic to take as much of it as Dean can give him. They sit up again and cry out at how it drives him deeper. “More,” they moan. “More.”

They come like that, riding Dean hard, Dean’s hand between their legs. He doesn’t jerk them off, though; he strokes them gently, like he’s teasing a clit, he grinds his palm against Castiel until they’re sobbing out an orgasm and his hand is soaked. “Fuck, you’re incredible, Cas,” he says, a look on his face as if he’s just witnessed a miracle. 

It’s too much, and Castiel is relieved when Dean wrestles them off him and onto their stomach; he pushes two fingers inside and twists, then nips at Castiel’s ass cheek before sliding his cock back home with a satisfied little grunt. “Okay if I just pound you into the mattress?” he pants in Castiel’s ear, and they nod eagerly. They’re too spent from coming themself to do much besides lie there and get nailed, but Dean’s got energy left for both of them, and when he comes soon after he muffles his cry in Castiel’s shoulder.

Dean rolls off of them and sprawls across the mattress, panting. "Good work, Cas," he gasps. He gropes for Castiel's ass and swats it, ineffectively, settles for squeezing it instead. "I would really like to do that again sometime."

"After breakfast?" Castiel asks, rolling over on their side facing Dean. "If you go slow and don't nail me like you just did, my ass is up for one more." They say it casually, like they're not already impatient to have Dean's cock inside them again.

"Yeah?" Dean sits up, puts his hand between Castiel's cheeks where he's slick with lube. "Can I eat you out some more?"

"You absolutely may," Castiel assures him. "I'm surprised you're so into it, as shy as you were about kissing me. You made me wait. For an _hour."_

Dean shrugs. "I'm shy, not bad in bed."

"No," says Castiel, and they take Dean's chin in their hand and look into his eyes; Dean bites his lip, but he doesn't look away. "No, you certainly aren't."

"You still wanna go to IKEA?" Dean asks suddenly.

"Of course. The mattress bore up admirably last night, but I'd rather fuck in a real bed."

"Okay," Dean says. Now he does break his gaze, his own wandering somewhere over Castiel's left shoulder. "Hey, are we dating?"

"What? No," Castiel says instantly, and Dean looks so crushed they wish they could go back and word themself less bluntly. "I don't really want to date anyone right now, Dean. I didn't know that's what you were interested in."

“Oh. But you still want to go to IKEA?" Dean says. He's looking down now, watching his own finger connect-the-dots with the freckles on his leg.

"Sure I do. Do you still want to take me?"

"Yeah, I mean, I said I would. And I wanted to look at at lamps anyway," Dean says. "And do you still wanna have breakfast and have sex again before we go?"

"Yes. Especially the sex, I can skip breakfast."

Dean sighs. "I guess I don't understand how that's not dating. But maybe it doesn't matter that much, cause that's what I wanna do today, too."

"Let's do that, then." Castiel springs up about of bed and hopefully out of this conversation, snatching their robe from the floor on the way to the cupboard. “I hope you like cereal or toast, because your options end there unless you want cold takeout,” they say with artificial cheer. “I have fancy jam, though. Strawberry and apricot. Have a preference?” Dean doesn’t answer, and when Castiel looks back at him he’s just staring into space, having made no move to dress or get up. With an inward sigh—it’s fine if Dean’s disappointed, but he doesn’t have to look so _tragic_ about it—they ask, “Dean? Are you okay?”

Dean focuses on them, frowning a little. “Why?”

“Why…am I asking if you’re okay?”

“No, why don’t you wanna date?”

They sigh out loud, frustrated, and set the milk down on the counter. “Dean, it’s not you, if that’s what you mean. I promise. I like you, and I liked fucking you, and I want to keep seeing you. But ‘dating’ implies a level of intimacy we don’t have, and one I’m not sure I’m up for. My last relationship ended—well, it ended with me leaving town on New Year’s Eve.”

“So with meeting me,” Dean says.

“It had its consolations, yes,” says Castiel. “Trust me that the week preceding my exodus was not nearly as enjoyable.”

“It really isn’t me, then?”

“No. Why would it be?”

“I don’t know, cause you’re so cool and confident and comfortable being queer, and you speak a dozen dead languages? And I’ve got a GED and my mom still thinks I’m straight. You’re outta my league, Cas. I’m basically playing tee-ball over here.”

“And yet you scored just fine,” Castiel says with a smirk. “Dean, it’s not a competition. I said I liked you, neither your academic credentials nor your sexual experiences affect that.” They make an executive decision that everyone’s having toast for breakfast, and pop some bread into the toaster. “Also, I will bet you five dollars your mother is fully aware of your sexuality and just too Midwestern to say anything about it.”

Dean’s frown intensifies, then breaks suddenly into a grin as bright and welcome as the sunrise after a long, cold night. “I’ll take that bet. And strawberry jam.” Joining Castiel at the kitchen counter, he slides his hand up the back of their thigh and beneath their robe. “Then I think I’m gonna get on my knees right here and tongue-fuck you till you’re begging me for my cock in every one of those dead languages.”

“Well, you did say you wanted to ‘do it romantic,’” Castiel says.

“And then we’ll go to IKEA.”

Castiel pecks Dean’s cheek and gives him a dazzling smile of their own. “That sounds like a perfect Sunday, Dean.”


End file.
